


Might Hate You

by Kittycattycat



Category: Le magasin des suicides | The Suicide Shop (2012)
Genre: F/M, Hallucinations, Other, POV Second Person, Schizophrenia, but I appreciate them, i don't know who they are, i know there's exactly one (1) person in the fandom who will get enjoyment out of this, mishimas schizophrenia is mentioned, prolly around ages 11-14?, referenced ones anyways, they're younger here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 09:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15116339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittycattycat/pseuds/Kittycattycat
Summary: God, you hate laughter. You'd rather wrap your hands around someone's windpipe than hear another bout (which isn't saying much— the idea of choking a person is rather appealing, you think.)





	Might Hate You

“Schizo!” you hear a group of boys across the classroom jeer at you, “Schizo, schizo!” You haven't even been properly diagnosed. You don't think you ever will be if your parents have a say in it. Money isn't tight at the moment, but psychiatrists cost money and money takes work and your parents wouldn't appreciate you using it up. Why would it matter anyways? Being labeled changes nothing, especially the way shadows sometimes dance jigs at the edges of your vision like your parents used to do when they were happy and still very much in love, or the way sometimes there's a voice whispering things you can't make out that feels like it's killing you and you feel like stabbing something sharp into your eardrums even though you know it would hurt like hell and impair you for life. Maybe that's what you want. Maybe you just don't know it yet.

The plain gray painted bricks make you feel as if you are in a penitentiary, locked in a jail cell for a crime you either didn't commit or do not remember. Even the open windows do nothing to quell the horrible ambiance surrounding the room, only putting on display the dark clouds smothering the sky like thick smog. The many desks surrounding you are basic and bland, scribbles of graphite graffiti covering the tabletops and crusted stale gum pieces stuck to the undersides. It's been like this long before you were born, your parents say, it isn't your fault or theirs or their parents’ faults either. But since the first bomb dropped and buildings crumbled and ears rang it hasn't mattered who’s fault it was, you all just have to deal with the aftermath. 

Laughter comes from a few meters away. You don't even make an attempt to resist rolling your eyes. Most of your classmates share a similar outlook on life, that it's worthless and death is so preferable and the option is right there (but for you it’s just out of reach). Sometimes, though, sometimes there are a few others who try to see the happy things in life and you find yourself wanting to strangle them, place both your thumbs just over their hyoids and press down so hard it breaks and strangled them while you sit on their chest. You assume your therapist, if you ever got to have one, would tell you these thoughts are unhealthy. But homicide is what fuels your brain and though you've done nothing yet there are no guarantees of the future.

Another laugh from the same place. You grit your teeth and your hands are shaking, fingers twitching and itching to latch onto something and squeeze it until it snaps or spurts out both ends like a cheap tube of toothpaste or does anything in between. 

You look over, and she's standing there, fluffy reddish-orange hair that goes down to just under the rounded starched white collar of her powder blue dress that seems busy snuggly hugging her robust form. Light patches of small freckles dot her face like stars in a milky pale night sky, hardly visible but with beauty can be felt more than seen. She's gorgeous. You hate her already.

You think, and you're not sure why you do it but you definitely hate that you do, that you could learn to love her.

Her eyebrows raise as she sees you look over out of the corner of her eye. A great grin stretches across her face, her cheeks rising in such a way it almost looked like she was squinting. “Salut!” she calls out to you, waving excitedly with her pudgy arm as if you were an old friend who had returned to her instead of a new stranger she wished to greet, and for whatever reason you raise your hand to her and her kindness in response.


End file.
